Our Lady's Ankle
by Random Minion
Summary: The story of Draco’s ankle fetish. A whirlwind of emotions and the accompanying confusion surface when Draco discovers he has feelings for Hermione. (DMHrGRW) NEW CHAPTER: Obsessions Can Be Detrimental to Your Self-image.
1. Beware the Side Effects of a New Curse

**Our Lady's Ankle  **

Warning: This work can be summed up in two words: Long and Rambling, so beware. I believe there will be a non-erotic sex scene in chapter three and I am debating whether or not to include a rampant display of masturbation. As I said beware, this chapter however is clean. 

**AN:** I know that Draco will seem OOC to more than one of you, this is my intention, as strange as that sounds. I was growing sick of this Bitchmasta!Draco that so pervades the fandom. I really can't see him as Super-Sex-Man, Evil-Genius-Bastard! or Jaded-Innocent. To me, he appears as a normal boy, who is easily sacred with an overly large ego and a sometimes misplaced pride in his heritage. As such I have tried to portray my Draco thus. I hope you will enjoy the fic. Any comment, criticism or feed back on my portrayal would be much appreciated. 

**Chapter 1: Beware the Side Effects of a New Cures **

A Malfoy always likes to keep his fights verbal, his scandals dark and his peculiarities unknown. 

At least for as long as possible. 

Draco had been feed this philosophy all his life, if not in those exact words. It contained a healthy dose of self-preservation and that was a thing Draco valued above all others. He liked the challenge of sparring on terms of wit alone, not actually because he was a particularly accomplished in the art of rhetoric but mostly because; if truth be known he couldn't have fought his way out of a paper bag. He much preferred a childish sneer and a causal insult to a bruise or a torn robe. 

As for scandals, they were things for the future, but one thing he knew; the higher up you were the further you have to fall from grace, and in his mind Draco fancied himself pretty bloody high. Peculiarities were much the same as scandals and despite his love of ridicule when someone else was the target, he did not much fancy the reverse. Slytherins being what they were, any leakage of personal information had the potential to become very uncomfortable indeed. He was a bragger he knew, but Draco always looked after Number One. 

He put up with Crabbe and Goyle for this reason, not only were they either too stupid or too loyal to let any of his incessant self-aggrandizement get out, they also could protect him form such dangers as physical conflict. The mere presence of the two big lugs was enough to stop any student in their right mind from attacking him on anything other than an intellectual basis. But there were always the fool hardy that would not back down once trounced and sneered at till they could stand no more. These few are the ones of which this story is concerned. After all it takes all types to keep the world interesting… 

*** 

In 6th year the Slytherins had Potions to be followed directly by Care of Magical Creatures. And as it turned out the Gryffindors came from recreation at the same as the Slytherins emerged. The two enemy houses would meet in an invariable clash of phrases and the occasional blow in the middle of the field. Anyone would think from the way the two sides secretly looked forward to these stand-offs that they were about to witness a medieval lancing tournament. Brave knights on either side touring out to sport their colours, and indeed on this particular occasion, it could almost be considered the case for it was the honour of one particular young lady, over which our two, somewhat brave knights fought. 

It was a sunny day in early March when a snap of warm weather had brought down the rains making the fields muddy then freezing hard in the night. It had snowed much earlier in the year and patches still remained in brown splattered, unsightly heaps about the fields. Some of the sun's warmth had still managed to partially melt freezing sheets of ice into thin puddles that covered the ground. Through these puddles tramped the merciless boots of a dozen, berobed students of the Slytherin variety, as they began their short journey across from the school to the paddock which was holding this month's magical creature. 

Halfway across as usual they met with another gaggle of none to dainty footed Gryffindors, and were about to stop to exchange their customary snarls when Draco slipped to the back of the group. Surreptitiously withdrawing his wand he pointed to a triangle of youths standing at the forefront of the Gryffindor group, mumbling a few choice words. Despite the fact that nothing happened he smiled, a decidedly devilish smile and slithered back through his own housemates to the front of the group. 

"Hiding behind your goons again." Potter said glaring at him, green eyes and bad hair both displaying a kind of almost tangible anger if hair and eyes could be considered to do such a thing. 

Crabbe and Goyle, along with several of the other Slytherin boys were stoutly blocking the passage of the aforementioned Gryffindors. Short of breaking down and walking around the offensive group, which of course was the most logical and therefore the least likely possibility, the two groups remained at a stand-off. 

"I don't need to face you alone. I would never be that stupid." Draco replied, the words might have sounded cowardly to a Gryffindor but made perfect sense to a Slytherin who, would by nature avoid a hand to hand fight where there was no likelihood of winning. 

"Whatever you call it, just let us pass we don't need to be late, unlike you we can't get Daddy to fix everything for us." Ron piped up, looking down on Draco with dislike as if he had just swallowed something none too pleasant, Draco merely glared, the weasel was below his contempt. 

It was in this manner that the groups exchanged causal insults back and forth until Hermione who up till now had remained relatively quiet spoke up reminding all of them that class was about to start. She unceremoniously grabbed Ron and Potter's robes hauling them off around the Slytherins ending the stand-off. 

The groups separated and each mumbling, in various states of disappointment meandered across the field towards their respective classes, the bell sounding, when all were only half way across. Draco waited looking back over his shoulder. Then there was a scream. Draco smirked to himself; he had gotten the spell right after all. With a pronounced swagger he headed off to care of magical creatures. 

He was however not too get far. Oblivious to everything Draco failed to hear the steps that pounded up behind him like a stampeding bull form some Spanish arena. He was therefore totally unprepared for the tackle he received nor the raining of inexperienced yet multitudinous blows that rained down on him from God, a redheaded avenging angle. 

"What did you do to her, you bastard!" Pinned in the mud the redhead's hands pressing his shoulders in to the softening earth, a knee digging into his stomach, Malfoy could still smirk, and so he did. 

"Why, what in the world are you on about?" Weasley blinked for a second unsure of what was going on himself. Draco took full advantage of his oppressor's momentary lapse. Kneeing him in the stomach and rolling him off onto into the mud ripping at the grass legs flailing to be free. His efforts were only a partial success and a tangle of limbs ensued only to be followed by more blows. 

When both boys finally emerged them were both distinct shades of black and blue, all covered with a thick layer of dirt brown that dropped off their robes and made any further movement near impossible, in their exhausted and half frozen state. Nevertheless each could still growl. 

"Damn you Weasley, this is my best robe, I would ask you for recompense, seeing as it is probably ruined, but your family would probably have to mortgage that shack you call home." 

"Shut your face, it isn't as if you have a home to be proud of yourself." They both continued glaring at each other at a stand-off for several minuets before a great guest of wind, reminded them that it was still closer to winter than summer and that each was soaked and freezing. 

"Hermione better be all right." Ron mumbled, looking as threateningly as he could with mud freezing on the end of his nose. 

Draco knew better than to respond, even if they both knew that he was the one to hex Ron's little Mudblood, he was not about to give the game away so readily by admitting his guilt in some crass ill-considered quip. It was an interesting hex, which he had been dying to use for some time now, a Backstabbing Spell. He had run into it in one of his old darker children's spell books, a gift from some now deceased aunt or other, when he was seven or eight, and he had discarded it in the attic of one of the towers. 

Finding the tower was an ideal place from which to watch the comings and goings of the various shady visitors, whose meetings with his father he was not yet old enough to attend. He had ran into the book again, that Christmas. He had been progressively working his way through it ever since. This latest devilry was a simple charm to terrorize and punish those who were likely to talk nastily about you, and whoever it was cast on would react most violently when anyone, themselves included, spoke out against the one who had inflicted it. 

Obviously the dream team had not been discreet in their opinions of him as they progressed to their next class and the Mudblood had paid the price. Pity it was not Potter upon which the curse had fell, but Draco reflected, the Mudblood was almost as good. Now however, being attacked by this lower class moron was not his idea of fun. With a snort of disgust at the smirk on Draco's face Ron turned towards the Gryffindor tower. His old boots squelched as he moved though the mud. 

"And were do you think you're going?" Draco demanded irked that this kid could just walk away from him while he stood ankle deep in a sodden puddle his perfect hair caked in brown goo. 

"To wash, I'm freezing and I'll be damned if I'm going to catch a cold only because you want to have a glaring match in the middle of a mud puddle." 

"I thought you said Granger was sick, aren't you going to go and rush off to your little Mudblood?" 

"Potter took her off to the medical wing which is where I'm heading as soon as I'm washed, Madame Pomfrey wouldn't let me in otherwise. Then" he added with some relish "we are all going straight to Dumbledore and telling him you cursed a fellow student, and see what he says about it. Maybe your daddy will be able to get you off with only a few years suspension." Ron grinned now as he tuned away and Draco was left cursing to himself. 

What was he to do now, he asked himself feeling a nervous flutter in his belly and the rising choking feeling of muscles constricting in his throat. This could become messy and Draco was pretty sure his father would be none to please if he heard. Running off as fast as he could in mud caked robes he made his way as surreptitiously as possible, towards the Slytherin shower room. Swearing as he went 

*** 

It had taken a whole hour to get cleaned up, even hurrying as he was, but Draco assumed that Ron would have to take the same. A thought had occurred to him while rinsing out the worst of the mud in his robe. Dumbledore had berated them last time a situation like this occurred, threatening to expel them all if anyone was to try anything again, regardless of 'who started it'. Draco found him any praying that the old geezer would keep his word. 

The shower had been an uncomfortable one. He had been appalled upon looking himself over after the wash to discover how much damage the mud had hidden. He had a vicious red blotch on his cheek that looked as if it were already turning into what would be a very nasty bruise. His shoulder ached and he had cuts and scraped and minor bruises all along his shins and arms and on the back and fronts of his hands. Damn he could almost faint to just see himself, Merlin did he ever look like a wreck. 

Next time, he vowed he would give the matter proper thought before testing out a new spell. You live you learn, he thought still mildly annoyed as to the state of his face. Thank God his beautiful nose was untouched. Better to learn such things now than when one was old and in a position like his father's. One mistake or miscalculation was the difference between life and immediate and none-to-pretty death when you played in the dark. 

Dressing he looked over at the clock, it was much to late to return to class but he felt he had to get to the hospital wing before the rest of the school heard of the tussle. Now he had a plan, not a brilliant one, but with any luck it should work. If Dumbledore kept his word then he doubted whither the Mudblood would let Potter and the confounded Weasley tattle, not when they all ran the risk of suspension. It all rested on whither these two could swallow their pride enough to let the event pass off with out seeking retribution thought a higher power. Draco mentally reprimanded himself for trusting to such a futile concept, but luck was a lady and even in a bruised state he could be a charmer when he wanted to be. And he did. 

*** 

Draco was walking as fast as he could though the endless winding corridors of Hogwarts towards the hospital wing. He tried his hardest not to wince at the pain that was spreading though his shoulder. It was aching like the devil himself, and Draco being Draco was not going to stand for it. Plus it gave him an excuse for showing up in the hospital wing while Potter and Company were in occupancy. 

When he arrived he opened the heavy door, warily peeking in to see if there was anyone about. There wasn't, save for Weasley and Potter sitting around a bed that must have contained the Mudblood. He snickered, they must have said some really unfavorable things about him to lay her up like a sow like that. Instantly he regretted the thought, for his snicker had drawn the attention of the two boys by the bed. Draco missed the comforting if inanely dimwitted presence of his friends. Alone he would not stand a chance against the two, magic or no magic, damn, another lapse in planning no wonder his father was ashamed of him. 

The two by the bed merely glared at him as he entered, and Draco noted with no small satisfaction that Weasley had a blackening bruise on his collarbone. He was also sitting a little too stiffly, Bastard. It would serve him right for attacking having attacked Draco as he had. 

"What do you want?" Potter demanded his voice dangerous. 

"Medical attention. Why else would I be here." Some times Draco was astounded by how menacing stupidity could really be. Then again with all his misjudgments and the lack of forethought he had displayed today he probably had no right to comment, so he said nothing further and waited for the subject of reparation to be brought up on its own. 

No one spook. And as mush as Draco was loath to admit it he was getting nervous, would they have gone to Dumbledore already? Had Madam Pomfrey gone off to snitch for them? He was not sure how much help his father would be willing to offer him when he heard how reckless Draco had been. Wonderboy merely remained sitting by the bed, passively ignoring him while Weasley took it upon himself to glare at Draco enough for the both of them. At last Draco found himself, forced to speak 

"Where is Dumbledore?" That was not what he had wanted to ask, but it was all he was going to bring himself to say. They were idiots if he didn't know they would go straight to the old geezer. Potter however didn't even look at him, he sat relaxed and unmoving, and nevertheless it was obvious he was still furious his next words made it unmistakable. 

"He's not coming." Potter answered through clenched teeth. 

"WHAT?" Draco demanded, utterly at a loss. Sure he had been planning to dissuade them form going to the Headmaster, clearly pointing out all the trouble it would cause; all the detentions, most likely with McGonagall or Snape, both of whom would likely have little mercy on anyone. Or even more serious a temporary expulsion. 

"He said we didn't tell him, are you deaf or just don't understand English!" Weasley spat from Potter's side. It was a childish insult and Draco ignored it thought it irked him to do so. Picking which fights to fight, was something he needed to practice and this seemed like a good time to practice. It was evident that Weasley had an even less friendly outlook on the lack of institutionalized retribution than Potter did. 

"Hermione didn't like the idea of getting the teachers involved, said this sort of thing has happened too often for there not to be consequences. And I'll be hanged before I let you jeopardize her year." Potter's voice was faltering but he continued as best he could, evidently trying to remain calm. "Dumbledore told us all that last time was the final straw. She didn't want anyone getting expelled." 

Draco stood for a minute flabbergasted. He was not going to have to do anything, with any luck his father wouldn't even hear of it. 

"She didn't do it for you Malfoy." Weasley snapped, "So don't go getting any strange ideas." 

Draco wanted to shoot back some witty rejoinder about not ever wanting to sully his pure mind with thoughts of the Mudblood strange or otherwise, but figured that such a thing would be in bad taste seeing as she had just saved him a pile of work. Some degree of civility must always be maintained, he remembered his father telling that once and as much as he would never admit it he was grateful. That didn't mean that he was going to be nice about it. He was a Malfoy and would therefore take it for granted. Remember be cool, be calm, this is what he had expected, Draco told himself. 

"What about Madam Pomfrey?" he asked, still somewhat suspicious. There must, he thought be a catch, no one would be righteous enough to let their worst enemy get away with such a humiliating hex. Even if they didn't forgive him, retribution was in short order and he knew it more than anyone. This thought made him exceedingly uncomfortable. 

"She fixed Hermione up of course, but we told her that one of Neville's spells that went awry." Potter said looking back at the girl, and Draco realized that he had yet to hear her say a word. Usually she was the last to shut up. He felt a sudden and intense curiosity to find out what the spell had actually done to her. He stepped closer making both the other boys shift uneasily. 

From were he stood he could see that she was sleeping, but otherwise looked perfectly normal, Pomfrey could be credited with efficiency of nothing else. He searched her face for some slight remnants of his spell but there were none. He did notice, much to his discomfort that she looked a good deal more peaceful than he had ever seen when awake. The other two boys were giving her funny looks that made him feel decidedly out of place. 

He was not one for outwardly expressing emotions. Though he had no trouble at all interpreting people's feelings; he somehow ended up feeling squeamish when anyone gave that look, the one where the eyes soften and the mouth half smiles, an all-round loving look. Enough to make a person sick. Weasley could have been oozing if he tried much harder. He was stroking the Mudblood's hand and it made Draco feel even more ill at ease. 

"Well." He said at last, trying to draw attention away form the sleeping girl and back to himself. He did so hate being ignored. "Then I'll just tell madam Pomfrey to fix me up and I'll be on my way. Till next time Potter." He was about to move to the door in search of the Mediwitch, but the boy spook before he had gotten more than a few steps. 

"You can't do that, what would it look like if you showed up all bashed about with bruises like that and Ron looking the way he does, just after she," he indicated the Mudblood with a wave of the hand. "came in spitting up blood with worms crawling out of her skin." Draco rejoiced with inwardly. The results were better than expected he would definitely have to remember this one. Just then the implication of Potter's words dawned on him. 

"Are you saying that I should continue unhealed by any form of magical aide while my shoulder feels as if it were about to fall out of its socket!" He was exaggerating and they all knew it, but it didn't stop him from shooting a vengeful glare at the redhead from whom it had been received. 

"Unless you want to expose our little set too, I suggest you comply." Potter said coldly before pointedly turning back to Granger. Weasley remained glaring at him for a time, daring him to break eye contact. Poor sucker, he didn't stand a chance, and his eyes dropped. Malfoy had been playing staring games since before he could walk. Stupid Weasley Draco thought as he savored his petty victory. 

It seemed however that no further interaction was necessary and so they ignored him. Draco stood indecisively, hating it. Short of making some more ill favored remarks, there was nothing he could do to regain attention. Leaving him with no other option than to retreat to his dorm. So turning with overly pronounced dramatics, he flounced out of the room. 

*** 

Minor revisions made March 23, 2004. 


	2. Don't Trust Every Portrait You Meet

**Chapter 2: Don't Trust Every Portrait You Meet **

Warning: A sneaky picture but nothing more. 

**AN:** I _NEED_ A BETA! Can nobody help me? 

*** 

The dungeons were cold, and empty. Class had yet to be dismissed, but Draco reflected it would not be worth going. Consequently he sat impatiently waiting for his goons to make an appearance while nursing his aggrieved shoulder. 

It hurt like the devil. He figured it had to be some higher power to smite him for his misconduct. Well, may they all go to the devil! Nevertheless it hurt. He had rubbed some pep-up ointment on it but it was taking its sweet time having any effect and in the mean time he had to suffer, which he did gracelessly. Slouching in one of the great armchairs, which only aggravated it further he bemoaned his plight to the walls. 

Honestly the whole thing wouldn't have happened if it had not been for Potter, why couldn't he just give up and die or see the light and join them relegating the whole inconvenience to the forgettable past, but NOOO he had to be Potter the insufferable Wonderboy git-face. And that friend; what a brute. No refinement, no money, nothing, only a low brow peasant's wizard, he should never have even been let in. lastly the accursed Mudblood. That bragging, nagging, unquenchable fountain of irrelevant information. She looked a damn side better when she had been paralyzed. 

The whole bunch of them irked him no end. What was worst was they had forgiven him. Well, that was not strictly true. Potter had forgiven him, or rather had seen the sense in dropping the conflict. That kind of level-headedness aggravated Draco beyond all whit of reason. How could he remain so calm, so damn mature. Weasley, now that was a reaction. Slightly too explosive, especially about anything involving the Mudblood, that was an interesting piece of information. 

Weasley was not bad fun either, Draco reflected. His trigger-happy reflexes and volatile emotions were so easily exploited, especially next to Potter's shy retired demeanor. The Mudblood was even worse. Explosive and unpredictable as only a girl could be, but unprovokeable at others. Draco couldn't stand females. With the exception of his dear mother, males were infinitely superior. That thought at least made him feel better. 

The salve had started at last to take effect and he experienced a pleasant tingling warming feeling spread over his shoulder. It, he knew would not be healed, but at least the ache would not effect him for a while. Everything had gone awry today and Draco resolved to retire presently and not bother with supper. It being Friday he could indulge himself without worry of the following day's classes, and could devote all his energies to perusing his copy of Boy's Dark Devilry Volume One which he had smuggled in from home over the holidays. There was always the added thrill of knowing that they were forbidden. 

There was something about braking rules that Draco could not find in anything else, even Quidditch. This was partially the reason he was so spoiled. His parents had discovered this fact as a very early stage in Draco's life. His mother instead of forbidding her son to do anything he wanted would permit him to do so; many an elf was lost in this way until Draco tired of the some such exploit. Nevertheless like the Muggle Pavlov and his dogs, so Draco's conditioning had begun. 

At ten he had been disgustingly spoiled having been allowed to do almost anything he wanted for torturing the house elves to reading all the darkest books or the Wizarding World. He was also bored out of his skull and all the more eager for rules against which he could filially fight. He had of course no such training for such a campaign against the forces of authority. He had had the desire but not the refinement to tow the line between trouble and consequence and as a result had fallen often dangerously close to the side of sever punishment. This was the reason why he had had to call upon his father in more than one incident. It had not been a pretty occurrence and he was gradually realizing that calling on blood to support you wasn't indeed always the wisest or pleasantest option. He had been trying to cut a more independent path since this realization, but his moral turpitude and spoiled dependant demeanor were major factors against him. He struggled on as best he could, whining while he plotted revenge with an ever if slowly increasing degree of subtly. 

This was exactly what he did now. Draco Malfoy, Rebel Without a Cause, which he was. 

*** 

Blaze Zabini woke him, shoving his dark unwelcome head in between the heavy curtains of the great four-poster. Draco had fallen asleep on chapter three of his book. He his nose had been uncomfortably pressed up against the pages. As he shifted he could feel blood flowing back into it and knew there would be an unsightly line across the bridge of his perfect nose. This only added to his lack of desire of dinner. 

"Hey Malfoy… you don't want dinner." Statement or question it was hard to tell with Zabini. 

"No, tell the two buffoons not to make themselves sick in my absence." With that Zabini's head disappeared and the curtains shut once more around his bed. 

Getting up he stretched stiffly, cringing at the jabbing pain in his shoulder. Damn. He cursed before shunting the heavy tome to one side and stretching out more comfortably in the huge bed. 

Zabini was a good enough mate, no questions, a bit of the secretive type. Silent and slightly suspicious to boot, but that was to be expected of any Slytherin. Looking up in the darkness of the canopy he felt the oppressive closeness of the little space around him and longed for some fresh air. Sitting up he yanked aside the aside curtains and was assailed by the damp cold air of the dungeon dorm. No fire, no matter how intensely it blazed could ever seem to conquer the damp. He flopped back lazily into bed, not wanting to face the cold just yet. Letting himself fall back into his dreams. There had been ankles. 

With some effort he struggled to remember a fragment of the dream that he had just stumbled. Ankles, ankles something about ankles. They were elegant, yes, and white. Damn it all! It had escaped again. He hated not remembering him dreams. As a kid he had always seemed to be able to remember what he had dreamt. As he had gotten older he found himself retaining them less and less, as if the revels of the night were no longer permitted to his older waking self. Denial of his pleasure annoyed him no end, but why for all of Merlin's magic was he dreaming about ankles? 

He pondered his as he lay back down for a third time, wriggling his way under the covers, and unbuttoning his robes and underclothes. After a bit of a struggle he flung them triumphantly form the bed to crease on the cold floor. His toes battled with the tight tucks of hospital corners, struggling for freedom from their confines. Ankles, a girl's ankles. 

His brow furrowed with the effort of trying to retain the elusive image in his mind. Yes they were indeed a girl's ankles and very elegant and graceful. He didn't know anymore than that. With a sigh he let the dream go. Nevertheless he found the fact that they were clearly a girl's ankles subtly disturbing. Although he would not have admitted it under pain of sever torture or ridicule. His fantasies had never run along such lines. Boys were what had filled his erotic dreams and caused the soiled sheets that were the inevitable effect of puberty. To have a girl's ankles invade his dreams was an intrusion of the worst kind. Had the dream been an erotic one? He could not tell for sure, almost all his dreams were in one way or another, this one was most likely the same, but why? 

Tired he closed his eyes. Trying to redirect his thoughts, something more befitting his character, revenge on Potter and his gang was his usually choice. With happy thoughts of supreme triumph over the Golden Boy dwelling fermenting in his mind, he drifted in an out of sleep until finally leaving the realm of the conscious entirely. 

*** 

It was probably early morning. No light could ever find its way into the Slytherin dorm so time became a habitual game of guesswork. Gentle snores still rose from the beds around his. Good, He was still alone just the way he liked it. Picking up his wand, which he always kept safely under his pillow, he waved it gently muttering a familiar light spell. When illuminated his watch read 'You still have 5 hours and 38 minuets before breakfast, so go back to bed.' One day he was going to have to get a less bossy watch, but for all it's faults his mother had given him this one and so he had felt obliged to keep it. 

He had woken mysteriously minutes before with what seemed to be no external prompting. On moment he must have been fast asleep the next he had been lying eyes open staring up into the darkness around him feeling slightly disoriented. This had happened before. Not often, but enough for him to have found that after such strange awakenings sleep was an elusive and unsnareable beast. 

There was noting for it. Pulling on a robe over his pajamas he slid out of bed his feet making contact with the cold stones of the dungeon floor. Damn but they were cold. He tiptoed to the door more to lessen contact with the floor than for stealth. His shoes were just inside the dorm were he had left them earlier. Slipping them on over bare feet, he eased open the door, making his way down the stairs and creeping though the common room, in short order found him self in the pitch-blackness of the dungeon halls. 

Were to now, he asked himself. His broom was back in his dorm, and it was still to earlier in the year to put in any serious Quidditch practice. Despite the claims of diehard fans, Quidditch was a summer sport and should have been confined between autumn and spring. Winter Quidditch, though he was know to participate, was by no means to his taste. 

The library was always a good option, but then he ran the risk of running into Filch, he had taken to prowling that area of the school ever since Potters little escapade in their second year. Just like him to go and ruin it for the rest of them. Not knowing exactly were the crotchety caretaker was headed Draco crept softly though the dungeons and into the main halls of the school. There were a couple portraits with which he tried to keep up relations, the portraits at Hogwarts were notoriously gossipy, so being on good terms with one or two had struck Draco as essential. It was form them that he got most of the inside scoops on what was happening in class or occasionally choice pieces of personal information with which he could harass his fellow students. So it was immoral, but there was nothing else to do in this god forsaken school. 

One particular portrait was of a decidedly seamy variety, a boy in a be-plumed hat who's Flemish brushwork gave him a hearty windswept look. Handsome rogue. Draco could hardly stand the competition at times, but the picture was a great sport when it came to finding out what one wanted to know. Draco did not like to think about what he did with the other portraits to get such an extensive knowledge, but he figured he would likely be the least to mind being woken up at such an hour. His portrait was up in the gallery on the other side of the school in a comfortable corner by the stairs to the trophy room. Draco bent his steps in this direction. 

The flights of stairs in this school were long and old and often creaked most terribly. On these nightly rambles he had established a game for himself, counting how far he could get with out prompting them to creek. After six years he had nearly memorized where to step on almost all the main staircases of the first and second floors. Having no form of protection from the powers that be, other than his own wits, this kind of practiced stealth was most useful. 

8, 9 10… cree… Merlin! He had almost made it up the whole flight with out a sound. Draco had by now reached the hall in which his painted acquaintance resided, and quietly he slid towards the picture. The grossly over weight chamberlain on the adjacent wall was snoring soundly so there was nothing to fear. 

"Sweet prince would it not please you to rise." He hissed at the sleeping picture. He had claimed to be the portrait of Edward VI, and thought Draco didn't believe a word of it, he none the less followed along with the portrait's pretence. 

"By all that is blessed, it is the lad Draco, what brings you here at such a retched and uncouth hour?" 

"Couldn't sleep." Draco glared, Edward was particle to calling him boy, despite the fact that if Edward was indeed the real king Draco was now a year older than him, This irked Draco. He had however long decided that Edward be he genuine of an imposter was too useful a tool to alienate and so he played along. 

"Seeing as you have come preethy why not tarry and talk a bit, anon there are such things afoot now that would I am sure hold you in great rapture." The portrait's eyes slid surreptitiously to the door leading into the trophy room. 

Draco really wished that Edward would give up the overly formal dialogue, which he knew the portrait was fully capable of, but it seemed that Edward was again in one of those moods, which meant that something of interest was happening. 

"What is it" Draco asked managing to sound only slightly irritable at not being told straight away. 

"Hark yea well!" Draco stopped for a moment, straining to hear anything but silence, then he heard it, a low pant, and a rustle. He tensed immediately. 

"What is it?" he mouthed frantically to the portrait praying that it was not some teacher, and that they had not herd him talking. 

"Look not so pale 'tis merely youth relishing the delights of May Day, though I own tis for sooth a trifle to early yet." Draco feared to know what this meant. But the portrait shot him a daring look, jutting his chin towards the door, which Draco now noticed, had been left open a crack. Taking a deep breath he slid across the room gathering up all his limited courage, preparing himself for the worst. 

Again he caught a faint a squeak, as if something concealed were in pain. Harry prickled on the back of his neck and he felt cold. Despite the wool robe, his arms were covered in goose-pimples. He looked back at the portrait, and saw that it was laughing at him, shooting it a glare and a rude gesture he took the final step, grasping the door handle and pushing it as gently as a gust of wind. 

And it slowly swung open. 

*** 

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( ) I want Sex-God Draco back! (enter comment here about character portrayal, or not.)   
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This version edited on March 23, 2004. 


	3. Certain Things are Not Ment for Children

**Chapter 3: Certain Things are not Meant for Children  **

Warning: The non-erotic sex scene I promised earlier and some more gratuitous mentions of ankles. 

**A Response to the Question; Why is this a Draco/Hermione fic:** Many thanks to all of you who have reviewed. In response to those who (with some prompting) asked, why have I classified this fic a Draco/Hermione fic when Draco does not like girls, I can't respond fully without giving away some of the plot. However, if you are familiar with the brilliant post war Japanese writer Mishima Yukio, or his work Confessions of a Mask I am sure you will have some inkling of what this fic is intending. Common in all my works is the need for a greater issue or investigation deeper into human nature, though it might sound pretentious is horribly rooted in my character. The fic however will I am sure answer this question better and more entertainingly than I, so please read and enjoy. 

*** 

The door swung open, slowly revealing the room, exposing it bit by bit. Feeble light dimly illuminated the trophy cases tinting everything a fine gray blue. 

White, smooth and lighter then the rest, it caught his eye, lolling in the air, pale blue, an ankle. He stared transfixed with a horror, far greater then what he held for death or dark arts. The door moved to reveal a leg clean and white, beautiful. Then two more, these different, the door opened more allowing his eye to travel further up. He looked along these legs, every moment more alarmed yet unable to look away. He could hear now, his ears finally accepting the sound of rhythmic slapping where the two bodies meshed, then even more slowly up an arch of back, so tantalizing that Draco needed to flee. 

Hair, long and bushy, covering the floor spilling out around a face that eye's closed, looked like that of the Mother of God being anointed, by the angle Gabriel. Mouth open she whispered, words incomprehensible to any other, atop her in all his glory was that messenger from God, that blessed angle, his head turned aside nuzzling her, red hair muted by the thin light, but still aglow with something other worldly. 

He ran, turning his devil's eyes away unable to bear the sight. Without a care as to who now heard him Draco turned belting down the stairs, fleeing like a diabolical specter before the light, sickened by what he had witnessed, blindly he ran on, not wanting to return, until he arrived at the darkest deepest place, within the castle. Hands shaking, he collapsed against the wall sinking in a heap on the bare chilling stone, comforted by their cold. 

God save him, the ankle flickered there in his mind, wanting to show him more, as if beckoning him to look up and relive the scene again. Opening his eyes wide, filling them with the darkness, he retched. Dry, his stomach had nothing; he could not purge himself. Shaking he settled back encircling himself with his own enfeebled arms. Trying as best he could not to think of anything he drifted. To sleep he at last escaped, happy in the knowledge that whatever he dreamed he would not recall it when he awoke. 

*** 

Draco was roused by a sharp pain in his neck and a sense of cold creeping into him from where his back pressed against the wall. His neck it seemed had become cramped in the cold, and now spasmed painfully when he attempted to turn his head. Stretching blearily he took out his wand, illuminating it and glancing at his watch. Nine, it was nine o'clock. Everyone would be up by now which meant he would have to walk though the Slytherin common room in his nightclothes he cursed. Making his way back though the labyrinthine dungeon toward Slytherin house, he was determined to keep his mind clear of everything until after he had taken a shower and eaten breakfast. 

In no long time he was in front of the secret entrance. Stealing himself, summoning up the worst glare he could he entered. There were a few people in the room, mostly younger grades who had yet to discover that sitting in the common room what a sign of lameness, and only people who had nothing to do would stoop to such a level. Mingling was to be done covertly, hadn't they figured that out already? He guessed not. Thought he did receive one or two odd looks from more senior students on their way out. Thankfully, no one questioned him as he strode towards the sixth year dorm. Uncomfortable, he shut the door behind him as quickly as possible only to be confronted by Crabbe and Goyle. 

"Malfoy where were you all night, Goyle got hungry in the middle of the night and when he got out of bed to get something to eat he couldn't see you anywhere, he was worried." Crabbe said sounding worried. 

His friend thumped him "He was worried too." he added, quickly. 

"Malfoy you didn't eat last night, we thought you had fallen out of bed and hadn't been able to find the kitchen in time and starved." Goyle said. Draco wondered if the lug really believed it or was just trying to be funny. No one could be that dumb could they? The two of them wouldn't have been able to miss a meal, even for the rebirth of the Dark Lord. 

"I'm fine," he said curtly before pushing past them to grab a towel that lay folded on his dresser, and headed to the shower. 

With the curtains drawn and water flowing in super heated rivulets over him, dispelling the chill of the night, he had time to think over the events he had witnessed. So he had seen Wesley and the Mudblood… going at it, that was all. Why had he had such a violent reaction, because he was gay? because it was shocking? Even now thinking about it was sending shivers up his back. No, it wasn't any of those things, he reflected. It was simply because it was a sick twisted act to see two of his worst enemies having sex, and enjoying it. Merlin, the though made him want to retch, it was sick and indecent, they were just children. That ankle again entered his mind, beckoning to him. He found himself gagging over the drain. He had to eat; the acid of his stomach felt like poison. 

Getting out he toweled himself dry as fast as he could. Walking back into the dorm wrapped in the huge towel he found that clothes had already been laid out for him: a pair of slacks, a tee shirt and his favorite robe. He glanced around suspiciously; the house elves didn't usually do such personal tasks. Crabbe and Goyle, he figured, they were worse then two mother hens, and for tough guys they were more queer then he ever acted. He sneered vaguely at the image of them in aprons making muffins together, sick fucks. 

Pulling on the clothes he ran out of the dorm, he was already late for breakfast. He ran all the way to the great hall, in some part of his brain he was happy, perhaps when one is hungry and headed towards food one is always happy. He resolved to miss meals more often. This feeling was a pleasant one that he felt all too rarely. Innocent pleasures, they were so much more enjoyable then planned pranks or satanic practices. 

The moment he entered the great hall the pleasant feeling vanished. Wonderboy was in plain sight, and if this was not enough to spoil the morning, next to Potter sat… them. How could they just sit there and laugh and talk as if nothing was happening or ever happened. How dare they, it was disgusting. He felt the heat rise in his face, his body freeze, and was almost glad when one of the goons grabbed his arm, pulling Draco heavily into his seat. 

Crabbe pushed some toast at him, as Goyle looked at him concernedly between spoonfuls of porridge. Draco could never bring himself to touch the stuff, he had always considered it peasant food and Draco was not a peasant. He did however permit those around him to eat it. He thought that grace enough. It gave him an odd satisfaction to know they ate their plebian gruel without ever realizing what it meant; meanwhile he was feasting on bacon and buttered toast. It was petty he knew, but it always made him feel more optimistic in the mornings. 

Draco really wished that the two would stop shooting him worried looks; it was really starting to unnerve him. Was he that rumpled? Was his hair not brushed properly? Finally after glaring back for a full slice of toast he demanded; 

"What is it?" 

"You're not eating" Goyle said with some trepidation. 

"What do you mean? I just had a slice of toast, with butter!" They exchanged looks as if conversing in some secret code understandable to only those of Neanderthalic intelligence. 

"It took you ten minutes and you haven't even touched your bacon - or your eggs." This was Crabbe, he sounded scandalized at the mere thought. 

"So, merely because I don't gulp my breakfast down like you two under brained over sized degenerates doesn't mean there is anything wrong with me." Draco snapped sounding more irritable then he had intended. The two retreated visibly behind their cups of tea. Draco made a point of keeping his mouth full throughout the rest of the meal, so as to render conversation impossible. 

At dinner, thought he had his back to the Gryffindor table, the bursts of raucous laughter from across the room distracted him, and he ended up eating more then he wanted to. They left early. No doubt to arrange yet another plot to save this godforsaken school, and embarrass the Dark Powers further. Draco gritted his teeth. Damn Potter. 

The petty revenge that he exacted on the git from time to time in no way compensated for the embarrassments and failures the forced of Darkness had suffered at his hands. After he was sure they had left he got up mirrored instantly by Crabbe and Goyle. He had a stomach ach and suddenly didn't want them around fussing over him. He wanted to go for a walk alone. 

Stalking out for the great hall, flanked as he was, he made his was back to the common room were his winter robes and broomstick lay, thinking all the way of how he could rid himself of the unwelcome company. Luckily he was saved from further unkind action by Zabini who demanded a game of Chinese Poker from Goyle, who, despite a shocking lack of ability in all things academic, was a renowned talent at such games. Goyle however declined looking guilty but torn, Merlin he could have been a Hufflepuff for all his clinging loyalty, then looked to Crabbe for counsel. 

"Oh just go, the both of you, I can do just fine on my own." 

Glaring he shooed them off and was slightly perturbed by the pace at with they retreated. Perhaps he was being a bit too harsh this morning, but how could anyone blame him. What with seeing that thing, he decided that what he needed most was a good long walk. 

*** 

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Revised: April 20, 2004 


	4. The Need for Nature and Close Cronies

**Chapter 4: the Need for Nature and Close Cronies **

Warning: Nothing but some name-calling. 

AN: Thank you readers, thank you reviews. Especially reviewers! 

*** 

Bundled up in two robes, boots, long socks, a scarf and a hat, Draco was sweating, but prepared to face the cold that was the winter here in Cumberland. The warmth of a few days earlier had given way, relapsing into bitter cold. This change had brought snow with it, blowing down from Scotland it now coated the ground in a powdery layer of virgin white. He left by the dungeon door, a little known port that had all the gloom normally associated with such doors who's main function is the admittance of the damned. 

The snow lay lightly on the ground and here at the back of the school, stretched untouched and glittering painfully. Draco squinted, eyes aching for the sudden adjustment as he trod off purposefully, leaving the first footprints in the pristine snow. Hogwarts had extensive grounds, however much of which was taken up by the lack, in front, and the forbidden forest to the south which stretched out east and the Quidditch pitch behind that occupying the north. The west side was the only side on which there was no development or point of interest of attract those out for a Saturday morning stroll. This was exactly why Draco chose it. 

Keeping to old and much disused cow tracks Draco made his was down the small dales and up the slight rises. The sun was clear and bright and even in the cold birds chirped industrously all around him. He once thought he glimpsed a field mouse scuttle across the snow and dissapear into an unruly hedge it's black twigs crowned by snow. Outside it was calm. Quite, save for the noises of nature subdued by winter, and his own footfalls, which only sounded as soft thuds in the powdered snow. 

He pressed forward searching out the furthest boundaries of Hogwarts. After what seemed like hours he felt his feet began to tire. His nose was red and his hands felt cold, even buried as they were in the pockets of his thick robes. His breath formed in white misty pants, as he searched for a stile, bench or stump on which to rest. He was approaching a little copse, perhaps no more then fifty trees, but by some chance he spied under one of the nearest a roughly hued wooden seat. Covered as it was in snow, it looked from the back like a stump but as Draco approached he saw it was a throne like chair carved from the sump of what must have once been a great oak. 

Draco brushed it off with his scarf before plopping him self down exhausted. If anyone from the school could have seen him then they would have scarcely recognized him. His usually pale cheeks were red and rosy as were his nose and mouth, so teased were these last by the cold wind, that they had started to become quite read and raw in protest. His eyes usually squinted with suspicion or malice were open and reflecting a clear gray, that of a lake in early morning before light can be said to have truly reached the earth. 

The oak chair was tilted slightly, the seat slopping up to the back instead of down, this Draco attributed to the creator wanting to preserve his creation by letting water run off instead of collecting and rotting the seat. It must have worked but made for a less then comfortable place to sit. He leaned back trying to ignore the unpleasant slant of the chair. 

His back to the open fields behind him he looked into the little copse, the trees were almost black, and threw deep shadows all around, their bare branches so thickly tangled that they broke the sun into a million tiny shards that scattered the ground. In the shade it was colder, almost uncomfortably so. As the wind shifted the branches made a rasping sound. 

Finally he could bare the chair no more. Getting up he waked in to the trees, a small brook its edges encrusted with crystallized ice trickled though them, on a whim he decided to follow it. The cold seeped into the soles of his boots thought the ground and froze his tows and he noticed a deepening of the shadows, taking out a hand he shock back the sleeve of his robe to get a look at the time. His wrist, pale and defined in the semi-dark startled him triggering the memory of an ankle. It flashed suddenly in his mind, dreamlike from the night before. He felt a deeper chill, and a lump rising in his throat choked him. It felt as if he were on the border of thinking about something that he didn't want to. Like a worry one has put off for too long until it has grown so enormous in one's subconscious that it is impossible to think any thought with out treading on it. 

Shacking himself Draco laughed. It was a false laugh and its hollowness was magnified by the cold around him, so that to Draco it sounded small and futile. He shuddered. What was so wrong with what he had seen? Relax, He told himself. But he found that if either from the cold or unease he found could not. There was nothing to do he guessed other then confront this demon. 

What had he seen? A girl and a boy having underage sex in the trophy room. That was all, what the bloody hell was so disturbing about that? Yes they were the friends of his worst enemy and he didn't exactly ever wish to see them being so intimate. But that was no reason to feel panicked every time he thought about an ankle. 

He had concluded in the shower; it was just because he was gay. Well, that explanation worked up to a point. Just the thought of having heterosexual reactions made him feel uncomfortable. Yes that was logical, but he had seen such things before in books and in the pornographic pictures that circulated around the Slytherin dorm and he hadn't panicked over them. Why then did he panic now? Perhaps he was looking at it from the wrong angle. Irritated, he kicked a stick. Why why why? The questions would not go away. 

At last thoroughly frozen he turned to begin the long trek back to Hogwarts. Leaving the copes, he noted that the shadows were much longer then they had been stretching far up the hill as if dark spindly fingers were reaching out to grab something. This thought didn't appeal to him in the least, with tepidity Draco looked back just to make sure that there was no childish monster lurking behind him. There was none. He was too agitated to day. Afraid of harmless shadows, this was ridiculous. 

He suddenly felt an overwhelming desire not to be alone. He wanted to sit in the common room and play Chinese Poker with Crabbe, Goyle and Zabini, and to hell with what anyone thought of him. He started to run, racing across the snow along the trail of his foot prints, until his breath ran ragged and he felt the nausea of fatigue over take him and he had to slow to a jog then a walk cramps biting at his sides. It was almost full dark before Hogwarts was back in view looming welcomingly in front of him lights shining in the gloom. 

He consulted his watch, it read; "Seven thirty eight, you missed lunch, at this rate you're going to waste away to nothing." He smiled, so motherly. Tramping down the halls he headed straight for the Slytherin common room. Rushing though it to the room, he burst vigorously into the 6th year dorm startling his fellow roommates. 

"You're back!" Goyle sounded both surprised and relived. "You enjoy the walk?" Draco nodded stripping off his outer robe and struggling out of his boots. "Where did you go, Hogsmeade?" this was Crabbe looking decidedly too hopeful Draco thought. Shame to disappoint him, oh well. 

"No, I walked west." Draco responded nonchalantly, Crabbe's face fell visibly 

"poor Crabbe" Zabini interjected, sneering "Master Draco didn't bring you back anything, maybe he'll remember to bring you something next time, provided you lick his boots enough." 

Though having his boots licked was something Draco would not pretend to dislike metaphorically speaking only, he didn't like Zabini insulting_ his_ boys. It rankled and somehow he felt usurped. "Why don't you shut up Zabini, you wouldn't think to bring your own grandmother something were she on her deathbed." Zabini merely sneered. 

"That kind of insult might work on that thin skin Potter but if that is the best you can do Malfoy you're losing your touch." Zabini smirked as Draco 's face ignited with annoyance. He was head cock in this roost and Zabini better learn that. 

"You loathsome little squib, so you what to take this up with your wand!" Draco felt enthused, this was what he had looked for, a release of tension. Something, anything. He really loathed duels of any sort, but right now he felt immortal, impermeable, invincible. 

"Oh stuff it Malfoy, you wouldn't show anyway and as a matter of fact I wouldn't either and we both know it." The balloon burst abruptly. 

Draco reflected bitterly, Zabini hadn't learnt his place thus far and there was little chance that Draco would be able to impress it on him now. It was true, it was so horribly true it was funny. Draco laughed and laughed. His own weakness and false perception joining in so that he couldn't stop until Goyle slapped him on the shoulder. Hard. 

"Draco you are being hysterical" Crabbe looked at him, he was not prone to out bursts of excess happiness 

"It wasn't even that funny." Zabini drawled. 

"Oh shut up, and play the bloody game will you." Draco said sharply to hide his embarrassment. It hadn't been funny at all he had just needed to let something out. Something that still festered inside him. 

"But I thought you didn't like…"Crabbe trailed off when Draco shot him a look. 

They played till dinner exchanging snippets of gossip as they did, Draco lost all but one of their games and he remembered why he did NOT like the game, but the company and the conversation were bearable enough so he stayed. 

*** 

Laying in bed that night his stomach full, Draco's out look on like was a decidedly more optimistic one. He had managed to get the upper hand in the verbal staring match with Potter over dinner and even Zabini had passed the salt when he asked him to. A good day, and an excellent dinner. Now that he was comfortably warm under the heavy eiderdown that covered his bed, curtains drawn he could think with out interruption over his reaction to the events that morning. 

But first he needed to get his mind in order. In his mind's eye he conjured up a pen and a fresh roll of parchment. He had found long ago that the most effective way for him to work though a problem was to write down the main points. This however proved to backfire when it fell in to the hands of someone for whom it was not intended. So Draco had had to find away around this, and his trick was to cerate such a record mentally. This two had its drawbacks but was infinitely more desirable than having someone get wind of a carefully crafted plan or personal detail. 

So he proceeded to out line what points he had so far: 1. He was gay. 2. He was upset by the Mudblood and Weasley having sex. 3. He did _not_ like ankles. 

The reason for his feeling uncomfortable was surely not because he was gay, no this was untrue because he did not react the same way when he had encountered similar situations on paper. This being so, was it then because he knew the people involved in the act? That might be it, but he hated both of them. the mental quill scribbled. To understand he would have to go over the event again. 

He had talked to that damn picture, old Ed would be seeing him tomorrow for sure. Damned picture. Draco made a mental note to take something particularly nasty with him when he went. Then he had opened the door and saw her damn ankle, he had to admit it looked… what, what did it look there in the dim light, this was the key. Draco thought he had found something. Did he desire it, did he like it, what? He didn't know so he continued. He had seen them together. Granger, looking pure and saintly like the Madonna upon talking with Gabriel. How could she remain so pure? He had felt dark in need of some redemption, some writ of purification. Did he want to posses her light? He remembered feeling something almost instantly suppressed something he could not pin down, then sick, and he had run. What then had he felt? 

This was not helping at all. Sighing he forced his mind to shut down, and think of pleasanter things, like how to bring about Potters ultimate downfall. Preferably in front of the Dark Lord, were upon he would be granted his place as heir to all that Voldemort possessed. Were upon the old geezer would conveniently drop dead. And he was already asleep. 

*** 

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Ratings:   
10/10: God like in its masterful fulfillment of all requirements in this category   
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	5. Why it is Best to Know One’s Own Mind

**Chapter 4: Why it is Best to Know One's Own Mind **

Warning: This one's clean, please don't be offended by Draco. 

**AN:** God, that needed a lot of editing, I must have a Bata! 

*** 

He had dreamt of ankles, he was sure of it. Waking up slowly he had had time to register at least part of what he had dreamt before it faded in the sounds of morning routine. Draco had never been a great morning person. He clung to the dream as he attempted to get out of bed. He was sure there had been ankles in it! Ankles, ankles, beckoning ankles, that was it! Something clicked and as if a cord was pulled some of the dream unveiled itself for an instant in his still sleepy mind. 

Along with the beckoning ankle had been a disco tech with lots of stairs, ruled by a crocodile or had it been a snake, no he most definitely remembered legs. In the dream Draco had got down on all fours so as to better speak with the creature. It had been something concerning a flawless strategy for wining at Chinese Poker by using only sevens and he had ended up ankle gazing with the oversize lizard. 

It was a silly dream but Draco was half tempted to return to the dream when Crabbe flung the curtains aside. He sudden light made his eyes hurt and the dream fade out of his mind. 

"I am not letting you miss breakfast again." 

To Draco 's bleary morning eye Crabbe looked not a little nervous issuing this order to such a volatile person as himself. Draco felt gratified and so complied with no more then an intelligible grumble. It was nice to be worried over once and a while. 

In the shower, he rubbed himself down lathering the soap in his armpits, he enjoyed seeing how much lather one could produce, it was childish but no one had to know. Pouring great glops of shampoo on his hair he did the same, trying to spike it with the foam, it would stay up for a second then flop to one side. He grinned, what was it they said about simple pleasures. Even baddies enjoyed trivial things some times. 

"I wonder what Potter would think if he knew. I'll wager my family fortune that he wouldn't believe it, closed minded git." He said, addressing the shampoo bottle. 

Finishing up he wrapped himself in the largest towel available, he had a sneaking suspicion that the house elves had laid it out for Goyle, considering his size, but that was not going to stop Draco. Exiting the shower room he shivered, why had no one ever though of casting a heating spell into these godforsaken stones when they were laid, but upon reflection how many lords wanted to consider their prisoners welfare when throwing them into the dungeons. Who in the world had decided that Slytherin, the purest house, should be relegated to this hole! 

Entering his room he noticed that no one had laid out clothes. Why couldn't those imbeciles be consistent? He would have told them so if they had been present, but they had left, having departed for breakfast. Scowling he rummaged though his trunk, slipping into comfortable robes. He had homework to do today, well that is what he got for not getting it done yesterday. So much for Sunday. He berated himself as he headed to join his fellows. 

*** 

It was Wednesday, the troubles of the weekend seemed to have all but blown over, save for his sudden and wholly bizarre propensity towards ankle dreams. That morning he had woken up sure that he had been crawling from carriage to carriage on the Hogwarts express so that he could peek at the ankles of all the girls but never finding the right ones. It was getting ridiculous. 

He was frightfully hungry and struggled to focus on an intensely boring lecture on the manorial system of Modern Scandinavian Warlocks, ironically modern was more than a hundred years ago, but even this point couldn't prove amusing enough to combat Professor Binns' voice. The Slytherins had history with the Hufflepuffs this period making a normally boring class utterly unbearable. What with the stupidity of their questions and the professor's lackluster approach he hated this class more than any he shared with the Gryffindors and that was saying a lot. At least he could count on the periods he shared with Potter to be exciting. 

It seemed the torture would never end, Goyle was already fast asleep, and had been snoring uninterrupted for the last ten minuets, and Crabbe too was on the verge of dozing off. Parkinson who sat to his immediate left was reading some magazine she had bough on her visit home over the weekend and Zabini who sat in front of him was sketching something on the parchment in front of him. Who would have thought that wold aspire o be an artist. Slimy Bastard. 

With five minuets left Draco felt as if he were about to go mad. Binns had repeated perhaps for the fourth time that the riots of 1827 had brought about a new and disgustingly liberal constitution, nevertheless, this still seemed to confound the Hufflepuffs, who were now conspiring amongst themselves in order to ascertain the meaning of liberal. Draco decided that this was indeed the time to ignore everything and he found himself once more thinking about the events of the weekend. 

He was entirely comfortable, he told himself. No more of this ridiculous over reacting. Nevertheless that damnable ankle still floated in the forefront of his mind, tantalizing. He couldn't explain exactly what he felt about it, only that it would not leave him alone. He once again reviewed the circumstances. He had opened the door and seen the Mudblood's ankle, and he had felt something that he could not name then panicked and ran off. There were too many unknowns here and Draco hated it. The bell rang. Merlin! At last it was over. 

The great hall was a floor below, and so they all made their mass exudes in the general direction of the stairs. Pansy had latched on to Draco's arm as was her costume and Draco was trying to think of a way to persuade her to lessen her grip, when though the banister that guarded the stairs he say the object that had tormented him these past few days. For just a moment a dainty foot reached out to touch down on the next step and with it a white clad ankle. The next instant to be covered by damnable red hemmed robes. He stopped short as she descended the last steps arm in arm with Weasley and smiling happily in divine unconcern for her surroundings looking only on him like a Madonna fixated upon a dingle point of prayer she passed on ahead of him into the great hall. 

"What is the matter with you today" Pansy demanded sulkily from his side. "Fist you brush me off when I am telling you all about my lovely weekend, now you aren't listening to me at all and I was just about to tell you all about the Quidditch match that Papa took me to on Saturday…" She paused for dramatic effect or so as to give him a chance to contradict her. He did not. 

"If you don't what to be around me that's just fine!" releasing him she short Draco a vile look before latching herself onto Zabini, who looked less than thrilled at his new appendage. 

"Damn." Draco swore quietly, now she was mad. His father wouldn't be Happy. Hang it all, Pansy was a nice girl as far as girls went but she was far too touchy for her own good. She had no right to be especially around him. At this point Goyle walked into him. 

"You bloody Oaf why can't you watch were you are walking" he reached out and cuffed the bigger boy in the shoulder, it probably didn't hurt him much but the great ape had to learn that such behavior was unacceptable. The bigger boy cowered and hung behind him as Draco resumed his former train of thought. 

It didn't help in the least that she permanently attached herself to him in some of the most painful ways possible. Never the less she was the only women he could ever imagine sleeping with, and that had been the important thing up until now. He would apologize after class and spend this evening listening to her while he did the potions assignment they had gotten this morning. 

Taking his place at the table he glared at the Gryffindors. Bloody idiots managed to mess things up with out even being involved. Pansy was mad and his whole life seemed to have been upset because Weasley couldn't afford to rent a room at Hogsmeade, like any normal person. Mind you he reflected he did have one of the nicest backs around. This was a very privet reflection, but even its intrusion couldn't dieter him from thoughts of Granger's damn ankle. 

There was only soup and meat pie for lunch neither of which Draco particularly cared for. Consequently he left early, to complete some forgotten DADA assignment. It was so ludicrously easy that he had fallen asleep in class: Dark-Light balancing and equations. 

Dark spells work best in Dark conditions, light spells in light, however with the right persuasion. A persuasion being the motivations of the caster which subconsciously effected the nature of any cast spell making it slightly different from every other casting of the same spell, Light spells react better to adversity persuasions. If examined further we find that a person casting a dark magic spell in the face of adversity would not cast such a strong spell as if it had been a Light spell of the same caliber. Whereas Dark spells are stronger when the user has the upper hand meaning that a Dark user would likely retain the upper hand more easily if the opponent stood him ground. 

Draco found himself smiling, did this not completely vindicated cowardice and make courage a foolish pastime. He wondered if the Gryffindors had gotten this same message from their homework. 

There was also a spell attraction chart. Light spells were attracted to other light spells. Dark spells were however attracted to light spells not dark spells, and needed light spell combinations in order to retain their dark properties in combination. This was considered a weakness that the teacher suggested they could exploit in combat. Draco had scoffed. The crazy loon they had this year did not see anything but evil in dark magic, yet to exploit this perceived weakness she encouraged her students to combat the dark arts with more of the same. The hypocrisy of women. 

Their teacher; the young and oversized Mrs. Krone was in Draco's opinion, an over righteous dictator of moralizing scruples and one of the worst Professors to ever grace the position. She had told the class that she was recently married to some wizard currently working in Malaysia, but had taken the post of DADA teacher for the year in order to earn enough to join him. And, as Draco thought to himself, increase the international population of Krones whether the world at large liked it or not. Draco scowled. Disgusting creature. 

*** 

Classes that afternoon were as ever; a fight with Potter and Co. mostly with Co.. He had been called a sniveling crybaby by Ron after protesting on having to complete an assignment on his own, at which point they had been assigned to work together. Draco had traded insults for the remainder of the period, getting in carroty pauper, oversized weed, and impotent moron. To the last Ron had blushed deeply and threatened to pound him in to the turf the next time he saw Draco at Hogsmeade. Why Ron had been so offend by the last Draco was not sure but it made an interesting point. 

Since the weekend he had not been able to concentrate well in all those classes he shared with the Gryffindors and this little tuff had done him good. In both potions and Herbology he had found himself horribly distracted by the sight of the Mudblood Granger. If he had had any doubt of his own sexuality he would have fancied himself attracted to her. He could not take his eyes off her and it was beginning to scare him. 

*** 

Back in the common room at the end of the day Draco found Pansy still engaged with Zabini. It was only to make him jealous, he knew that, but Zabini was a two-faced Double Dealer and although he had no great objections to Pansy spending time with another boy her choice irked him. That was probably why she picked him. Girls, they were so stupid in everything else, so inferior in all things save when it came to manipulating matters of a more emotional nature, Merlin curse them. So Draco resolved to make amends. 

"Pansy," he came up to her as she and Zabini lounged, laughing on a couch. "You never told me about that Quidditch game." A hint, but no apology for his behavior to her. She would either take it and come away with out a fight, or she would be contrary and stubborn. He perversely he hoped it would be the latter. 

"I thought you had no interest." Pansy said pointedly. Stubborn. "The way you were ignoring me this morning and starring at that Granger girl. It was disgusting!" she snapped glaring at him her hand in Zabini's. 

"I was just trying to formulate a plan for getting them in trouble, I would never like Granger and you know it!" He clenched his teeth. A fight, a fight something inside him cried out for one. She noticed, and now she was going to spread it around, like jam, damn jam. 

She was looking superior. "Oh were you now, I bet you were just trying to find a way of getting her into bed" Draco noticed Zabini raise his eyebrows. That kid was sick and twisted if he actually believed it. 

"Look Pansy, if you think that you can push me around by making accusations about me that are completely unfounded you are stupider than everyone already thinks you are." With that he turned on his heal and headed out. He was furious. Over nothing, he reflected but enraged all the same, was it because it was true or because Parkinson had just embarrassed him in front of most of his house. She would follow him he knew but right now he was going to postpone the inevitable and headed off in the direction of the library. It was after all, it was the last place she would look. 

Draco was right, he had waited doing various trivial assignment for a full hour until she made an appearance. Pansy's normally pretty if some what doughy eyes were rimed red and her pug noes was shiny. He could feel almost sorry for her having to run around the school with a face like that. A good and loyal dog, He reflected. She approached and started gushing. 

"Oh Draco darling, I am soo sorry. I didn't mean to make you really angry, I was just jealous because you were ignoring me and I thought…" She trailed off, and looked at him pleadingly, trying to look as lovable and piteous as possible. She had not yet perfected the look Draco mused. The tear stains ruined it's intended effect and it wouldn't have worked anyway. He was after all immune. 

"Sit down" he said in lieu of a pardon. "You promised to tell me all about the Quidditch game." in a moment the gushing recommenced detailing every play with an avidness that was obscene, Draco tried to maintain an air of interest while he resumed the tasks at hand and all was just as it was before. 

Pansy's discourse continued unchecked until the librarian shooed them out and it was time to part and make ready for bed. They separated with a kiss as had become customary and Pansy vanished up the stairs to the girls' dorm blowing him more tokens of her affection as she disappeared. When she was at last out of sight, Draco let out a long breath. Gods, that girl could talk your ear off. He had much to think about and so made speed to retire. Crabbe was asleep by the time he was done and all the others save Zabini were in their beds. This was good since it meant he would not have to have any thing to delay or interrupt him. Lying down he composed himself to thought. 

This business with Granger was upsetting him. It was embarrassing to think that he might be attracted to her. Once again he played the scene he had witnessed over in his mind. She drew something inside him towards her, but again he could not think what. She was so pure, so clean and new and innocent, was it that he wanted. After all Dark magic needed Light magic. Could people work the same way. She had looked like the Virgin Mother and he had felt as if he was a devil looking in on those accursed gardens. And was burned by her holiness. Was it that he wanted that power. She had looked beautiful. Yes that was undeniable. Draco shook his head. He must have wanted her. It all came back to one thing, he didn't like her, not just as a person, they were from different camps to be sure, but she was also simply the wrong sex. 

Draco had often reflected on the topic of attraction since becoming aware of his own sexual preferences, that it would have been much easier if they were not so. He was the heir to a great family and an old name. As much as he might not enjoy it he would have to make sure that name continued. His father would make certain of that whether he liked it of not, but if truth be told he would fulfill his duty with out prompting. Draco had few loyalties, and was only constant were it suited him, nevertheless everyone must have a rock of Gibraltar on which to base themselves. His was his name, as far as he was concerned, it had lasted time immemorial and he was not one to brook its march ever onward towards the future. So, come what may he would marry and produce an heir. He had no intention of remaining faithful to whom ever it would be, but the name would endure. That was all that mattered. 

Draco began to doze, his confused brain let go, thoughts straying to other things and was he was at last asleep. 

*** 

**Random Minion's Reviewing Made Easy™**

Fill in the blanks: 

This fic is ______. You should (_continue/give up_). The part I like most was ______________. I think you could improve on ____________. Please (_notify me when you update/take me off your update list_). 


	6. Obsessions Can Be Detrimental to Your Se...

**Chapter 6: Obsessions Can Be Detrimental to Your Self-image **

Warning: Masturbation ahead, though I am sure you are by now aware that my style does not lend itself to give to much physical detail if this makes you uncomfortable please **Stop reading after the card scene.** *bloody prudes* 

**Authors Note: **Thanks to Arbitrary for this update, without your mention of my fic in your last chapter I doubt I would have ever gotten round to editing all this. And of course thanks to all you who have reviewed. I am so proud that you have actually had more to write than "this is great, write more." You people are great! 

*** 

Despite all his efforts Draco found that he could not rid himself of thoughts of Granger. He knew he was obsessing and that thought did nothing to improve his current comfort level. He found that his eyes had developed a disturbing habit of seeking her out during lunch and class. He had even gone to study in the library lately. It was humiliating, but it was far worse fore he now took to haunting the staircases in the hopes of seeing again, if just for a moment, that tantalizing ankle. He did not have much success and was beginning to question his own sanity. She was of course still a Mudblood with no other distinction, but Draco still felt bound to admire her. Why? 

This feeling of duty towards the emotions he held for another were odd to say the least, but did little that helped him when he confronted his growing paranoia. Though he watched her it was furtively, as one that knows he is doing wrong. He had taken on the habit of sweating and tugging at his collar when she was about. It was ridiculous, this exaggerated over reaction yet he could not help it! He felt like some devil sick with dilution stalking a heavenly body of a forbidden angle, it disgusted him, but he couldn't stop, pushed on by an obligation to love this forbidden creature. This is killing me. He thought in the overly dramatic manner that characterized him. 

Pansy and he had just left charms and he had spied Her coming towards Pansy and himself from down the hall. Watching her as she walked Draco could not help but notice the cut of her robes, the elegance of her walk, her high manners and cool head and the air of contentment that she always exuded when arm in arm with Weasley. She was always happy and with Weasley. Looking at the red head a thought crossed his mind, yet one more of many to plague him. Why am I not jealous of him? This was not the first time he had asked himself this question. More than once he had challenged Weasley and even Potter or both merely to assuage his guilt on this matter on more than one occasion. Now however he wanted no more than to slink away before Pansy noticed renascent demeanour. 

"Hay pansy you were telling me about that sugar quill you traded Jenkins for." she had mentioned it to him this morning on the way to class. He hoped she would grasp the opportunity and start some long ramble as was often her case. 

"No I wasn't" she said looking puzzled. Damn it. Couldn't the retched girl catch a clue? 

"You mentioned it to me this morning, said it tasted like strawberry ice or something like that" Potter and friends had stopped so that weasel could tie his shoe. Unconsciously Draco gave the bent boy a once over. 

"Yes that was all, what more did you want me to say" Pansy looked more confused than ever. 

"I don't know I wasn't the one to bring it up" Draco snapped distracted. 

"It's only a quill how much can there be to say about some silly pen, and you were the one to bring it up right now." They weren't moving at this rate he would have to walk right into them. He needed some reason to stop, let them move on before he could continue. 

"Damn it Pansy you make so much out of every little thing I thought you would want to talk about the bloody pen. I was only trying to be nice." He was lying through his teeth but Pansy had stopped. She was somewhere between, tears at being yelled at and grateful puppy at having been the object of his good intentions. It appeared she could not think and walk at the same time. Merlin, thank those who have not the brain power to walk and think simultaneously. Weasley had finished playing with his shoe and they were moving on, he wondered that they had not acknowledged his presence. Pansy and himself couldn't be more than 20 feet away. He was however thankful that they chose to ignore him. He was in no mood to play word games. 

"Come on" he growled at Pansy. She walked meekly to his side and made a reach for his hand. A mixed blessing, some days she would yell back when he mistreated her, others she would go all meek, I was endearing in the way that a faulty spell was endearing. This his thoughts towards Pansy, they were a feeling, but at least it was one that if he could not control he could deal with. He let her take his hand, she might be stupid and spiteful but she had saved him from a confrontation he had wanted to avoid and he was grateful even if he wouldn't say so. Pansy sniffed as he slid his hand into her own sweaty palm and she gave a small hiccup before they made their way to the dungeons. 

*** 

Classes were over for the day and Draco felt drained. All this sneaking and sliding and slithering was making him feel exhausted. Flopping down on his bed he looked idly about him for some distraction, something, anything that had no connection to Potter, Granger, Weasley or Pansy Parkinson. He settled on Solitar. The deck of cards was not his, it was Goyle's. He would not mind. Well more likely he would have no choice. Crabbe and Goyle; those two were such wet blankets it made him feel sick. 

They would do his bidding even if he told them to tell Voldemort that he was ugly. The morons, he might need them, but respect them? Never! Yes they were good for a laugh, and truthfully he could not have stood them if they even showed the slightest signs of intelligence, but still there was no way that he could ever regard them as more than… perhaps dogs, big gormless brainless dogs. Neither of them were in the room, probably stuffing their faces somewhere. Zabini however looked across at him languidly as Draco reached out for the cards. 

"You taking those" he asked from his bed. 

"Yes did you want them?" Draco asked proffering them, sucks to him even if he did. Draco wasn't about to give them up. 

"No." The other boy replied lazily. Draco fancied that Zabini had caught his meaning when he had offered, Draco never offered something, his gesture was a language known by Slytherin for Slytherins, it placed one in a social rank, and although he might appear polite Draco knew that Zabini was well aware of the fact there he wasn't offering anything at all. 

Zabini was too perceptive, and he was of a better family than either of his goons. Draco couldn't remember, foreign; Spanish or was it Italian, maybe neither. He would have made a decent companion, if they had been in another house, but here he was not to be trusted. The slippery, shifty, Git watched too carefully and saw too much. He looked to good and he was not the type to blindly obey so Draco had never had a use for him. Any friendship would have had to be on equal terms, both respecting one another, but although Draco could bring himself to grudgingly respect the other boy. Zabini could therefore never be more than an acquaintance. More would have been dangerous, even now Draco felt mildly worried; of all people, Zabini was likeliest to notice his current state. This thing with that Mudblood. Draco began to sweat; this was wreaking havoc on his personal life. Draco resolved that it would be best to just keep a straight face for now, no one had to know. He would stop all those petty little glances, he would. If anyone were to guess he would be done fore. 

Coldly he took the deck back to his bed and began to shuffle. Yes indeed any misadventure involving the Mudblood would be disastrous for his character. His house had its hierarchy, and kept to it strictly, everyone had a clique and each kept to his own and knew his place. There were those who were more highly regarded, and they of course had more to loose, Quidditch players for example were house heroes but their position was not necessarily to be envied. Don't ever dream of playing badly. Those at the top were only there because they stood precariously the shoulders of those beneath. At the slightest provocation the highest man might be toppled, Draco had seen it done last year Quidditch captain had been permanently shunned until graduation after he missed a play in a game against Gryffindor. Slytherin was not a forgiving place for such fumbles. 

Draco had often reflected that even if Potter had joined him on the fateful day on that first train he doubted very much that they would have ever survived as friends. Slytherins were notorious backstabbers, and Draco was far from loyal he would have no qualms about stepping on anyone as along as it advanced his sense of greater good. Potter made a better enemy anyway. He kept Draco on his toes, and he would have hated to loose all those glorious dreams in which he lived the thrill of his rival's demise. It was sick Slytherin justice. 

Draco sorted the cards, lying on his stomach laying them out in rows. Hogwarts was enjoyable up to a point, but now all he wanted was to leave and get out into big bad world, the stakes were high here, but nothing to out there, however the world at large was less cramped. Here it was the same old recycled fights and conflicts year after year and Draco was growing sick and tired of it. Draco flipped a black jack laying it on a red queen, flipping the card under it he found another red queen. He didn't need a queen, he wanted a king. 

"Eurg!" Draco growled. He had lost. Zabini raised an eyebrow. 

He re-dealt. After five minuets he gave up in frustration. Nothing but bloody queens. He sighed and pushed the cards aside. He looked around the dorm, Crabbe and Goyle had yet to return and had most likely fallen asleep at their gorging, Zabini had apparently snuck off while he had been last playing. The other two, a mousy boy with constant spots and a sandy red head who's lack of speech refinement had led him to be teased mercilessly the first years of his attendance, after which he scarcely spoke a word, were also elsewhere. Draco glanced sidelong at his bedside clock. "One hour and eleven minutes to supper… you have time." 

Indeed. Well it is an option. He thought wryly. Getting up he put the cards on his bedside table and flopd back onto the bed. He needed more than anything to relax, he contemplated taking a shower, but he had just had one this morning and if he took another one now he ran the risk of damaging his hair, plus that took to much energy. Cards were out, and he had no desire to read. Idly a hand strayed down into his robes. Picking up his wand he undid the curtains facing the door with a flick of his wrist before his hand retuned to its former position. Gently it moved. 

I his mind he reached for a box, his favourite moments. He hoped fervently that the clock was right. Just for fifteen minutes, he promised himself. That was all. His hands fumbled with fastenings as his mind searched for the desired instances. There was Potter in pain. Having crashed in a Quidditch match, laying on the ground those disgusting glasses smashed. That had been last year. He gripped himself at the thought and reached lower, dredging up more, coxing both his body and his mind to respond. Shots of Zabini fresh from the shower, flashes of memory. For all Draco couldn't stand the boys air of equality, Zabini was at least gratifying in some respect. He had the same translucently pale skin as Potter when there had been no sun. Something however tweaked at his conscious. With a sigh he brought forth an image of Pansy, cute but it made his interest wane in the activity. He banished it feeing he had done his duty. A thought of Granger's ankle. At this he moaned. On the stairs, then in the tower that night, her ankle and Weasley's freckled back resplendent in the pale light. It moved franticly dangling in the air, conducting some crazed orchestra of carnal acts. 

He stopped his mind the thoughts were no longer necessary. His head lolled to the side and his hips thrust into a clenched fist that moved in time to some natural rhythm. Anxiously he stopped and looked about himself before shifting again. 

The ankle had moved on and given way to thighs. Tanned, spread apart. A hand reached down to his own sides, and he let out a long breath. Idly he wondered what she looked like not covered with Weasley's body. Trying coloured the image up with mental difficulty. His hand stopped its movement, the effort to maintain the image was not worth the trouble. He focused again on her ankle. He imagined her wrist. he ran his own over the inside of his thigh. Sweat was beading on his arched back and he figured he had better finish himself before it became necessary to take another shower. Bringing back the images of Zabini he increased his pace. His cheeks flushing he prayed no one would find him. Then found himself praying that they would. Find him and ravish him, this illusionary person's hands were as skilled as his own and he found himself crying out softly, his muscles spasmed clenching compulsively and wetness covered the inside of his robes. 

Nothing. He lay for a minute, his hand still gently moving, his sleeve making a slight swishing sound against his Jumper. He breathed long. And he shut his eyes. 

*** 

**Random Minion's Reviewing Made Easy™ **

( ) You lazy ass, it took you for ever to update and all I get is a measly 2,500 words!   
( ) I thought you went a little overboard with the descriptions of the Slytherin hierarchy. Was it really necessary.   
( ) I really like Zabini, he is like Draco's black haired double.   
( ) God! Zabini is such a Gary Stew! With all the lounging and the smirking, Ewww!   
( ) Come on we want real sex here.   
( ) But that would be against the rules?   
( ) So, brake them, they don't apply here anyway, this is Slytherin we are talking about.   
( ) Draco is getting really OCC…  
( ) I need a clock like that!   
( ) Loved that part were (enter part here).   
( ) Was that card game supposed to be symbolic or something? All those queens?   
( ) You are really trying to hard with this fic. Stop it before it goes down hill.   
( ) You have forever ruined that Fanon SexGod!Draco.   
( ) Oh well I was sick of him anyway.   
( ) I will now have to hurt you for writing things that are trying to be original.   
( ) You know what, you are wasting space here so just ask the basic questions and get on with it.   
( ) Get on with it, eh? You sick Slytherin!   
( ) Update soon, and contact me when you do.   
( ) Roger that! Over and out!   



	7. Disillusionment is the Rudest Form of Aw...

**AN:** It's been almost a year since I started this project, and just going over it now, it's almost painful to see the substantial lack of stylistic quality in a work I was initially so proud of. It makes facing up to the task of editing very difficult. 

Sorry to make all of you wait so long hopefully this slightly bigger update will appease you my somewhat faithful readers. 

**Chapter 7: Disillusionment is the Rudest Form of Awakening**

The morning came, and after it another. The days were getting noticeably lighter though the snow showed no signs of a speedy retreat and the frosty weather held. In school, things progressed as usual, but Draco was frustrated. He chalked it up to some side effect of an unrequited love, yet as hard as he tried he could not focus on the damn Mudblood. She was boring and overly correcting, a perfect Madonna when he longed for flaws. An unappealing opposite, yet his perverse nature made him want something to which she was intrinsically connected, something he sensed connection to only through her. She was taken, that one window to this unknown thing that haunted him was shuttered and so the scene he had witnessed up in the trophy room still held him afflicted. 

Since that one time he had been observing her more and more, at first he held little interest in her comings and goings, and merely gathered what snippets of news he could pick up from casual conversations with his fellow house mates. But as he became more and more drawn to the damn girl, he had felt it was his duty to know more about her, and her friends. It was a bore, but there was always the added perk that he now was in the position to lean more about Potter's movements at the same time. The Weasley, he had almost discounted as an attractive appendage to Granger but nothing of any consequence. As he watched them more he began to feel an odd form of jealousy towards the pair, which, like his feeling for Granger he could not entirely place. Nevertheless he rejoiced in it, taking it as I sign that he was truly smitten with the Mudblood. 

Despite all this effort he felt a quite kind of worry settle upon him; as if it were all, in some way, an elaborate lie. It would creep down on him as he became bored watching her at dinner, or in class. The worst wave came when he felt nothing when she flashed an ankle in plain view on the stairs. So what, he had told himself, but the sense of duplicity hung around his interest in the pair. 

In an effort to offset the horrid feeling he had taken to writing long soppy poems, and mope around as he assumed was proper from for one smitten. He watched their activities, and memorized their schedules. When they were together, when they were apart, when they were with Potter, and when they had free time. Draco could admit that he had always been one to fixate on a thing, but after weeks and weeks it was becoming a down right bore, nevertheless he clung to this love with all his might. 

One day when the snow was melting and the mud was again thick like that day he had cursed the Mudblood, the Slytherins and Gryffindors again met in the field; Draco this time at the forefront. There had been many of these little spats since that encounter where he had tried out that new curse. Since the Incident, he had always regarded them not only as a test of wit, but also as a chance to show his metal. Normally he felt the rush of adrenaline, the moment the first mean words were thrown was a delicious forbidden pleasure spiced with danger, and he usually remained in this heightened state for some time after their conclusion. This time however he perceived the Gryffindors approaching from across the field with an uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm. It had been building he noticed, he no longer felt a thrill when he watched the Mudblood for reaction. 

Pansy stood at his side Crabbe and Goyle flanking him a little behind, Zabini no were to be seen-slimy bastard, and the rest following in a gaggle behind. The Dream Team heading the Gryffindors, they approached each other. Around him, Draco could feel the tension mount in expectation of a great clash worthy of Greek titans; he however merely wanted to get it over and get to class. Pansy glanced up at him, with a worried look, for a moment he was deadly afraid that he looked the coward. Coward he was, but he still had to save face. Steeling himself he prepared for the confrontation. He would no doubt lead off. 

The two groups at last faced each other like opposing armies ready for battle. As much as he didn't want to, he felt pressed on by the weight behind him and on all sides. He looked over at the Mudblood, he loved her, he would love her, and he would be normal. For a brief flash he wondered why such confrontations were necessary in this matter. How did conflict in any way relate to love, did he do this to impress her? He shrugged it off. 

"Excuse me Potter, we need to get to class." This seemed to be the best way to start. It had been superficially defamatory, but the accompanying sneer he knew from experience was enough to provoke at least some reaction. There was always the hope they would give-up and just let him pass. 

"Who do you think you are? If you and what to get past us all you have to do is walk around." This was from the Mudblood. It had been so commonplace a thing to say that he felt like giving up right then and there, and just listen to her. He wondered fleetingly whither she would appreciate such a gesture. Probably not. He was not going to make a fool of himself for anyone anyway. Fatalistically he embarked on the only course of action open. There was no help for it now. 

"This…" He tapped his foot on the stone path on which the two parties were standing "is a path. That…" He pointed to the sloppy puddles that riddled the grass. "is mud, as a Mudblood it is you who should feel perfectly at home waking in it." It was, he reflected, not a nice thing to say, for the past weeks he had refrained from attacking her, keeping to Potter, you don't insult loved ones, most of the time. Now however he was too much annoyed by the whole need to waste energy on confrontation to care. It was her fault anyway. 

"See here you pompous shrimp!" This was from Weasley as he put a protective arm around the Mudblood. Draco might have been bored dangling after the girl but again that jealousy spasmed in him. After all this was over he wanted desperately to take himself off to the dungeons and think it all through. She was not in any way his, he really wasn't even sure whither he even wanted her to be, nevertheless here again was this jealousy. He had to think. 

"See what?" he demanded with a sneer. "I can see nothing but a dirty little obstruction, that needs to be removed" The boy's jaw worked. Draco had to commend himself on the ability to goad peoplem, but at the moment it was the last thing he wanted to do. He wanted out. 

"D-don't talk about her like that" Weasley was apparently so enraged that he had taken to stuttering and blustering. An endearing fault and that was just fine, as long as he didn't get violent. Now however he needed desperately to extricate himself from the situation as fast as possible with no loss of face in front of his house. The task was daunting. 

"I'll talk however I like." he said with a flippant glance around his entourage. "This _thing_ thinks he has the right to tell _me_ what I may and may not do." They laughed with scornful unease, baiting the fight. Potter had laid a restraining hand on the bloody tomato head and was looking as uncomfortable as Draco felt. Potter always could get away with just being himself, damn him. 

"Look Ron." He said lowly. "Let's just go." There was a pause as everyone seemed not to know in which direction they should proceed. Then Potter stepped forwarded. 

"I suggest that unless you want this to get physical and let everyone to see what a coward you really are, that you stand down. Your goons can't prevent me from giving you one good black at least, There is nowhere to run so just stand down." Potter whispered this, glaring coldly at Draco. He felt himself step back involuntarily. Potter was too close, standing only a foot away his fists clenched. Potter entering that sacred personal barrier. Draco had at times wanted to feel what it was like to be in such close proximity to him, but now he found he didn't care for it one bit. Inwardly fuming he whispered back in the same ominous voice. 

"Back off Potter, let me pass." He felt like a rat, trapped in a corner, but he was not going to back down to Potter. Clenching his own fists he stepped forward walking past the other boy, bumping him viciously in the shoulder as he pushed past. The Gryffindors stood still for a second then shuffled to onside, glaring at him as he sidled on. The Mudblood and Weasley had followed Potter and now the enemy camps were back on the move, jostling each other on the narrow path. Luckily no one fell, he had to be thankful for that at least. There would be no fight today. Nevertheless his blood seethed, he felt somehow betrayed. 

Pansy drew level with him, jabbering about how scary it had been and how amazingly he had stood up to Potter. 

"…She should really be made to walk in the mud. I can't stand that Granger… thinks she is all that…. with her pauper boyfriend… I hear they shag each other every night, so much for being Miss Chastity." Pansy prattled on maliciously, Draco adding little, he just wanted the day to end. 

*** 

His encounter with the Dream Team had left Draco feeling embittered and exhausted. He had crawled though the remainder of his classes, with no enthusiasm at all, plagued by different concerns. A million thoughts seemed to form and reform inside his head. He needed to sit and reevaluate everything. He did not however, get the chance and it was making him incredibly irritable. 

He snapped at Goyle for treading on a quill he had dropped on purpose just as the fool was walking to take his seat, and when Pansy wouldn't shut up he had finally snapped; saying that she should have been a Hufflepuff for all the brains she possessed. She'd been nagging him, she deserved it, nosy bitch. She had not taken it well, but had stood by him, sniffling and saying it was "her duty to be supportive." He had continued to insult her. She had stuck by him doggedly the rest of the day to his utmost annoyance, smiling at everything he said and obviously trying her best to make him feel better. 

He had eventually yelled at her, and told her that she that she was a clinging little slut, in fort of a bunch of Slytherin fourth years. She had finally run off tears in her eyes. He had not seen her since, but when at last he had retired to his dorm, Zabini had told him with a cold look that "Pansy was crying in the bathroom and would not come out." He was by then in such a foul mood that he had merely sneered and said that it was what she deserved. Zabini had not looked in the least impressed and had left the room. God how he hated honorable villains, they always got the girl, at least for a time. 

He flopped down on his own bed, closing the curtains. No one would disturb him till dinner, Merlin help anyone who did. Talking in a deep breath, he let it out slowly trying to be rational and compose himself to though. He couldn't do it. His mind drew a blank; nothing. He wanted to get all this sorted out and now, now that he had made everyone mad at him so as to be left alone, there was nothing. Nothing. He felt anger rise in him. Frustrated he shifted irritably on his bed, messing the beautifully made bed. The house elves better have it remade before he got back from dinner. Damn house elves only cleaned up once a day, thanks to Potter and his damn friends. 

"Ah FUCK it!" Clenching his hands into fists; he slammed then down on the bed. The side of his hands stung painfully. Damn that Potter, making him look like a fool, and the Mudblood for driving him crazy, and then Pansy being such a moron as not to realize that he just Did Not Need Her. That he never would never ever need her like she wanted. He got up pushed by his rage, it was choking him, and he felt a tightness behind his eyes. He just wanted it all to go the hell away. 

"It's not fair, IT'S NOT FUCKING FAIR." he screamed not caring who heard. What was unfair he didn't know, but he just needed to scream. No one, absolutely no one better come in; he would… he would _kill_ them if then even _dared_ to touch the door. Something dripped off his chin. _No one_ was coming in, not to see him like this. Something creaked. 

Draco was suddenly gripped by an irrational fear, he glanced at the door, then slowly around the room. No one. Nothing. Silence. "arrrrr- aAAHHHHHhhhhh" he screamed letting his voice go until there was no more air left in his body, and he collapsed back into the bed. They better not come in, they damn well better not. He was sobbing. Wet streams down his face, and his noes was running, his hair in his eyes and some trailed in the snot that ran from his nose. He felt like a kid; out of control, lost, not knowing what to do. Not knowing what was so wrong. He let the sobs rack him until they too ran dry and coarse, his stomach hurt, whimpering he reached for the glass of water that was always on the nightstand. 

I had little bubbles lining the sides. He watched them from his sprawled position on the bed, cheek meshed into the bed spread. Reaching out a shaking hand to it and then pausing to tap the side, watching in child like wonderment when a tiny pocket of air freed itself, flying up to the surface. He wished he could too, he felt buried in emotions he could not quite understand. He had hurt Pansy that didn't matter so much but what if she left him, never talked to him again. He knew he was gay, and yet he wanted Granger, or at least he though he did. He was jealous of _Weasley_, and what was worse; nobody gave a damn. 

Picking up the glass, he brought it to his lips, trying to drink it sideways, letting most of the water dribble onto the sheets in creating a damp puddle that he couldn't lie on. The water was warm, but he gulped it down anyway, wanting to dispel the horrible acidic gnawing in his stomach. He would not think, not right now, he was too hungry. Turning so as to avoid the wet patch on the pillow, he curled himself into a ball and tried to think of pure white snow. 

*** 

It was dark when he opened his eyes, someone must have put out the lamps. He lay still, his stomach making unpleasant gurgles. Draco felt sick. He had to eat, and hoped beyond anything that he had not slept though dinner. His face felt tight with tear stains, and he wondered if his eyes were still red. He considered emerging, no not yet it was too humiliating; he must have been herd by every Slytherin in the house. His cheeks burned. He definitely didn't want to show his face anywhere out side this room until next week. Dinner could bloody well wait. 

Relaxing he stared into the darkness above his head were he knew the heavy green bed curtains would hang. Despite what the shame he felt a little better, but no closer to finding answers to the questions that had irked him earlier. He felt strangely clam and content, and even hungry as he was all he could think to do was stare contentedly into nothing, not bugged by any thought. 

He must have stayed like this for some time. It was completely quiet. It could have been days that he lay there for, Draco didn't know, nor did he care to. Though some small cynical part of his brain interrupted quietly to remind him, that he was grossly overstating his case and it was probably one a few minuets, after all, his thoughts reminded him, you could not entirely shut off your brain for any length of time. He was just about to contradict himself when the door creaked open and wearily foot steps entered. There was the glow of a lamp that brightened the fringe of the heavy bed curtains, then the tentative treads began to approach Draco's bed and a hand hesitantly lifted the curtain aside. 

Draco blinked, his eyes aching at the sudden increase in light, blearily he looked up. It was Goyle, his face full of pudgy worry, looking down at him holding a tremulous lamp. "I- I'm sorry for the the… quill. I…" He faltered, trailing off into unintelligible mumbles. "We d-didn't mean to make you mad…" For all Goyle was a mountain he had always seemed to live in some degree of fear, concerning Draco. Now his great stupid voice was shaking along with the lamp he held. Pushing tangled hair form his eye Draco looked up at Goyle disoriented by the sudden shuddering light. 

"Don't be an idiot, it was only a quill." A pause, then with more of a snap in his voice 

"Goyle, you don't stand there, shaking like a bloody pudding, what do you what?" the boy didn't respond immediately but seemed to be collecting his limited wits. Opening his mouth he was about to start when irritation prompted Draco to speak again 

"For all the magic of Merlin, put the bloody lamp down, you're shaking so badly your going to set something on fire." It again appeared that Goyle had lost the tentative grip on the subject of his communication. Turning he followed Draco's advice and placed the lamp on a side table. 

Fumbling for his wand Draco, tied the drapes back with a flick and stared at Goyle. He must look horrible Draco thought annoyed, and here was this damn buffoon coming in and disturbing him before he had had a chance to wash his face. 

"Goyle" He said pettishly after a moment more of the bigger boy's stammering. "_Why_ are you here?" He reflected that though this was in Goyle's dorm too, hopefully the idiot would never think to say so unless Zabini told him to. The arrogant bastard, disturbing other peoples friends. 

"Supper… we wondered if you wanted any… it was Crabbe's idea" he added hastily. 

"Oh is that all." Good, he hadn't missed it after all. "What time is it?" he asked not remembering his own watch. Goyle struggled with his sleeve in his haste to uncover his. 

"Nearly seven." He answered sounding more confident. 

"I'll be up as soon as I'm ready, and I better not find that you great pigs have eaten everything." Draco had flung his legs over the side of the bed and was rummaging in his trunk for a fresh robe. Goyle stood hesitating for a moment, swaying his great bulk nervously from side to side before slipping back out the door. Getting up Draco pushed himself off the bed and sliding on to the floor. It felt odd walking again, as if his legs weren't used to it. Making his way over to the ancient stone basin that served as a handy in room washstand, Draco wiped his face, squinting at his reflection in the semi-dark. Satisfied, he moved back across the room, not bothering to change his robes. Supper would just have to take him as he came. 

The light in the great hall when at last he made it there after what felt like ages of dark dingy passages blinded him, hurting his eyes. He caught sight of _her_ across the room, but pointedly ignored her as he crossed to his seat eyes smarting. She won't care either way, she was much to sensible to mind even if she had noticed. Weasley on the other hand might have cared more had he noticed. 

He had taken his usually place, trying his best to be civil and repair the damage of his days mood over a meal of bangers and mash. They all seemed all too willing to cooperate, it irked him slightly that none of them bothered to check his childish behavior. It made him what to stomp and thrash until they had to. He escaped as soon as possible, lousing the other Slytherins in the crowd as they left the great hall. 

Ahead of him the stair case rose. 

*** 

I don't know when I've used so many italics. It's disgusting. But somehow it's just not Draco without them. 

No reviewing made easy for this chapter; I'm too tired. Maybe I'll add one later. The story's being bitchy. I've left it to long and now it doesn't want to flow properly for me. 

Please review and tell me what you think. Personally this chapter felt way too wordy. I think my style is changing. Commentary is much appreciated. Come on I worked hard… please. 


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